


Matriarchy

by Risingstorm15



Category: Original Work
Genre: Author really needs assisstance, Gen, Like desperately, Matriarchy, Stereotypes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22157140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Risingstorm15/pseuds/Risingstorm15
Summary: Two short poems about matriarchy because I need help with an english project. Please read and send feedback and criticism so I can get an outside view on my works.
Kudos: 4





	Matriarchy

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this note then you are fantastic and I will shout out you all in my work notes for the partially written next chapter of Maknae Mayhem. I was trying to edit and found myself being too biased towards my own work so I would love some comments about what you liked or where to improve them.

Millennial Baby

When did, ‘You can be   
Anything’, become –  
‘You must be everything’.

The mother, the provider, the  
Teacher, the preacher  
Of hopes and dreams for

Millennial babies. Their lot  
In life cast only by themselves.  
An epic of their own making.

9-5 then home again,  
To dishes and husbands,  
Both alike in tediousness

The warrior of sleepless  
Nights, lost teeth, and   
Abandoned dreams.

My mother was a Mosuo,  
Her grandmother an Amazon,  
Matriarchs of power

Who ruled as iron ladies.  
Wooden spoons were  
Their guns, and 

Aprons their armour,  
With a flint-like stare,  
And perfectly curled hair,

They convened court in   
Their sitting rooms with  
Cups of tea and an intelligent

Eye; that told tales, tales  
Of a proud matriarchal  
Ancestry, a dynasty.

‘You are one of us,  
Dear millennial baby,  
A future queen whose

Kingdom will be your   
Kitchen, a place where  
No man dare step’.

I am not a feminist  
Nor a suffragette or   
A dictator. I am a

Millennial baby, and  
My dreams are not aligned  
With the ancestral stars.

I am a daughter and a  
Sister, my voice is cast  
From the silent mountains

Who rise like towers to the east,  
To the drought stricken  
Valley that grows more

Brown and crinkled with  
Each day. Do you hear me  
Now spirits of old?

You tell me to be a lawyer  
So I will teach. My hopes   
Do not align with your stars.

I am watched by  
Eager eyes for the time  
In which I may rise as queen.

Those eyes will be disappointed.  
For millennial babies do not   
Become queens. They are

A pair of breasts with legs,  
To be gawked at by the peanut-  
Crunching gallery of

Men. Men. Men. Those  
Who reign in the bedroom   
where their power is greatest.

‘You are Otrera. Esther.  
Joan of Arc. You are Rosa Park,  
Portia, Ophelia, Deborah’

Those matriarchs seem to  
Say. ‘You are a matriarch,  
Uphold our legacy!’

An Ode to Mothers Past

O mother how I grieve you. Survivor of a thousand   
Summers, you take your place in the song  
Of mothers long past. You are not alone there,   
O wise one, your mother, and her mother   
Have taken your hand and lead you in to a dream.  
A dream where I can not follow.

I think of Otrera the warrior queen, of wives   
beaten down only to arise as phoenixes.  
O brave Amazon, your legacy lives on in Hippolyta and   
Hermia, your wild daughters becoming women.

Beyond her is Jael, O wife of a Kenite, and the  
Mutilated corpse of Sisera, the foolish king  
Who thought her weak. Your blood waters the  
Dust, your handsome face cracked right through  
By her mighty blow. O great king, will you  
Scorn her femininity now?

When I am weary, I shall think of Elizabeth,  
A queen who sunk an armada and reformed   
The churches with a single order. Where is   
Your husband? You have no need of him.

They are joined by Boudica and  
Her wild head of curls. I believe you  
Will be good friends O warrior of   
Sleepless nights. For you have both  
Spat in the eyes of men and defied your  
Empires for the sake of freedom.

Sylvia holds your hand tenderly now,  
O mother of my youth. Her torment has  
Passed now, and so will yours too. For  
A dream is too ethereal a place for scars.

I wondered if you would be afraid  
When you took your place among the  
Mothers of the ancients, and yet time has  
Showed me a picture of you, holding court  
Amongst them with your steaming pot of  
Lady Grey. Graceful as a queen.

Your children who live on in this world  
Will remember you. O wise one,  
You eat men like air. And like a   
Phoenix I will become you.


End file.
